The throw of the dice the week lands on adventures in Newark and Manhattan with Uncle Myron. Myron is my Uncle by way of tradition in the world of my father. Most of his associates and friends were Uncles. It was after the New York Post published my story on ”Confessions of a Mob Kid”, that Myron wrote to me.
Our first meeting.
“Hello sweetheart. I’ll meet you downstairs in your hotel at 10:00.”
“Can we make it 10:30, I’m running late.”
“Sure.”
A thick steamy humid rain splattered against the hotel window in Newark, New Jersey. Coming to Jersey has everything to do with Myron and my mother. She was born and raised here, and so was Uncle Myron; the man I am meeting downstairs as soon as I dry my hair. His father, Sugie, was a friend of the family. Not the Smiley family, the other family that I only acknowledged after writing a memoir.
The phone rang at 10:00 am.
“Hi sweetheart I’m downstairs.”
“I’m getting ready as fast as I can.”
“Well make it faster.” Click.
I had a feeling that he’d be early. Dad pulled the same stunt on me.
Downstairs in the lobby, an imposing man wearing a black fedora and a black over coat, was standing in front of two younger men. They looked like blue collar guys; dressed to make contact with machinery or heavy equipment. They all turned my way as I approached them.
“Hey, little lady! Come on-we’ll have a cup of coffee. I have to talk to the boys for a few minutes.”
“Boys, this is Luellen. Okay, everyone sit down.”
“You know who this lady is?” Myron asked. They both stared at me.
“Her father was Benny Siegel’s partner, and a friend of my father.”
They nodded.
“Luellen, these boys are from Russia. They’re good people–the best, and highly educated. Where was your Dad born sweetheart?”
“Kiev.” I answered.
Simultaneously the two young men, started to speak about our Russian family name, Smehoff, and the meaning in Russian.
“It translates something like joy, and to be happy.”
“That’s why the immigration officers changed it to Smiley.” I said.
The boys, as Myron called them, talked history, politics and world affairs before I’d finished my double espresso.
“Is the Russian Mafia very powerful?” I asked.
“There is no Russian Mafia. The power is with the government, and it’s hidden agencies.” One of them answered. I regretted making such a stupid comment.
“All right, now we’re going to go over here and talk a little business.” Myron stood up. He looked down at me, ” Okay.”
They shook my hand and nodded, without any affectation, and followed Myron to the next table. I’d been here before, many times, I knew the routine, sit and wait.
After the meeting, Myron and I went to the car.
“I was in prison with the kid, the fair haired one. He just got another sentence. I’m trying to help him; I have to do what I can. He’s got a wife and child.”
I listened to Myron; every word. His language was not formed in college or through books. It is one of people who’ve survived the dangers of living outside the law;of living in Africa, when Chicago sent him to be the manager of a joint venture slot machine operation with the Arabs, Israel, and every Latin American country from South of the Rio Grande to Patagonia. He moved machines through un-chartered borders, and learned the language of the people. It gives a person the sophistication that enables them to stand up in the hall of justice, where judges and informants cat-walk their power, to the chagrin of men who live by their word, honor, and secrecy. Myron is raw as beef; there is no fat between the lines. He says something; you know it came from experience.
“What did the kid do?” I asked.
“It’s all bullshit.”
I’d heard that before too; and I knew it wasn’t any of my business.
“Would you like to see where your mother grew up?”
“Yes!”
“What street was it—Schley?”
“Yes, 35 Schley.” How did he know the street? I don’t remember telling Myron or writing about Myron drove slowly, it had been years since he’d been in this part of town.
“I’m not sure if this street will go through. They didn’t have a freeway going through this part of town in the thirties. Wait a minute-if I go up here, and turn around,” Myron drove with one hand, without a seatbelt, wired into the blackberry ringing at ten minute intervals. He grew up in Newark, so he was determined to find his way back to Schley Street. We circled for a few minutes. He made U-turns in the middle of intersections, and paid no heed to other drivers. I recognized that routine, Dad used to drive with two fingers and read his mail simultaneously.
“This was all Jewish at one time. Look! There’s the park where your mother played as a little girl. I can guarantee it.”
The park was set in the midst of a deteriorating neighborhood; the Victorian homes were boarded up or used for storage. The park was the last remaining landmark of the turn of the century Newark culture; a society that pushed buggies on a Sunday afternoon, dressed in top hats and lace dresses.
“There’s the famous Tavern. It was one of the most famous restaurants back then. Your mother went there, and across the street is the high school. This is Wweequahic neighborhood. Newark was a flashy town back then, better than New York because you knew everyone. I knew every family and if I didn’t, someone I knew did. We looked out for each other.”
“Like Longy did.” I knew Myron’s father was partners with the legendary Jewish boss of New Jersey, Abner Zwillman, who was known as Longy.
“Longy is another story all together little lady. You cannot grasp what the man was about on a short drive through Newark.”
“Look there’s the house.” Myron pointed. “It’s a two-family, your mother lived in a very nice place, see. Now you know. Are you happy?”
Myron picked up the phone. “Yea, meet us in the city-I’ll tell you later what time.” I looked at the house; imagining Nana, and the grandfather I never met inside, and my little mom standing in the front yard with her German Sheppard. I have a photo of her standing in front of this house. She is holding a parasol over her head, and even at five she looked ready to model. To be continued… Any dice to throw email: folliesls@aol.com
